


Spill Your Breakfast, Drip Your Wine

by eevilalice



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Community: hp_kinkfest, F/M, Femdom, Frottage, Hurt/Comfort, Light Dom/sub, Makeup, POV Female Character, Porn with Feelings, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Wet & Messy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-06
Updated: 2013-02-06
Packaged: 2017-11-28 09:16:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/672757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eevilalice/pseuds/eevilalice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If Hermione is honest with herself, her singular attraction to Malfoy began back at Hogwarts the first time she saw him looking anything but the sleek-haired, immaculately dressed prat she’d come to loathe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spill Your Breakfast, Drip Your Wine

**Author's Note:**

> Written for hp_kinkfest 2013. Kink: salirophilia (soiling or disheveling the object of one’s desire).

When Malfoy shows at the Muggle hotel, Hermione is surprised, but pleased. He looks mostly fine, like an hour’s wilted flower, still proud and beautiful. The late afternoon rain has tapered to a mist—she’s been watching the day wane through the room’s lone window—and his high end dragonhide boots are shiny with it, the hem of his outer robes darkened where they skimmed the pavement.

 

She crosses the room and observes that the rest of him is dry: no moisture beading his hair or eyelashes, no sheen of it on his skin, no spots elsewhere on his clothes. He must have used a charm to keep the rain off.

 

But there are dark circles beneath his eyes, and there’s a pallor to his skin she doesn’t like. A hollowness haunts his features, a sharpness beyond the usual. Even layers of robes can’t hide his slightness. She wonders if he’s gained any weight since sixth year, though it’s been three years. She wonders if he’s _lost_ weight. 

 

Malfoy regards her curiously but says nothing as she briskly assesses him. He says nothing when she gestures for him to take a seat on the queen-sized bed, one eyebrow twitching, lips quirking in a small smile of satisfaction as if she’s confirmed secret suspicions. He looks up at her and barely reacts when she draws her wand slowly from her robe’s inner pocket.

 

“You’re not scared?” She’s asked him here without giving a reason why, insisting he come alone.

 

He shrugs. “If you wanted to do me harm, you’d have done it already. You’ve had ample opportunity since the war. But,” he smoothes his palms along the bedspread, “it’s not like you’re the sort anyway.”

 

She nods. His response doesn’t tell her why he’s decided to come, but right now there are more pressing matters if she’s to learn whether or not this will work.

 

“Let’s freshen you up,” she says, voice unnaturally high and a touch too bright. She lifts her wand gently and takes a step forward but does not begin casting any spells. His eyes narrow, though in contemplation rather than mistrust, she notes.

 

“Your robes are a bit damp at the hem; I’ll cast a quick drying charm,” she explains before doing just that.

 

“Thank you,” he says tonelessly.

 

“I’d do something about your boots, but I don’t know how to care for dragonhide,” she confesses. She wonders if it’s too much, too soon, if her interest will spook him.

 

“That’s all right.” Still no wariness colors his voice, and she takes another step closer. Their robes brush.

 

“You look tired, Draco,” she intones, re-scanning his face, his lackluster hair. “Your skin, it’s so pale. And your hair, it was always so...” She pauses. His eyes have widened a fraction, but she can’t tell with what emotion. “Your mother must worry,” she continues. “I know some glamours...”

 

“Be my guest,” he says and sits up straight. The muscles in her face jump with concealed elation.

 

She performs the charms with absolute precision, as if the spells are one hundred times more complex and challenging, of utmost importance. She tries not to watch as the glamours transform him, waiting until finished to look him over properly. 

 

His hair gleams silvery, swept over his forehead. His formerly dull, pasty skin is a healthy ivory, and her eyes sweep his face and follow the line of his neck down to his collar. A swallow lifts his Adam’s apple, and she swallows in turn. His dry lips have gone soft and moist and pink. She licks her own and raises her eyes to his, glad to see the dark circles gone. Impossible to erase the lifelessness in the grey depths, glazing their surface, however. She frowns. 

 

He is once again quiet under her gaze, and she realizes that, if she wanted, she could do anything to him. He would let her. His weariness, his apathy, are marrow-deep. She guesses he found the mysteriousness of Hermione Granger arranging a clandestine meeting at a Muggle hotel an intriguing novelty.

 

She is fleetingly ashamed when it occurs to her that his detachment might work in her favor. The frown lifts. 

 

“Right. That’s all for today. I’ll owl you next week, and if you’re interested...” she trails off, implication clear.

 

Brows knitted, Malfoy stands. He glances behind himself at the bed, then at her. After a beat, he ceases his staring and nods briefly before heading for the door. 

 

Hermione tucks her wand away and straightens her robes as if illicit activities have rumpled them. 

 

She has waited eight years for this.

* * *

If Hermione is honest with herself, her singular attraction to Malfoy began back at Hogwarts the first time she saw him looking anything but the sleek-haired, immaculately dressed prat she’d come to loathe.

 

It was after Gryffindor’s dramatic win over Slytherin— _Harry’s_ triumph over new Seeker Draco—second year, and she’d caught sight of a bedraggled, cowed Malfoy being addressed by his stern father. Hermione’s eyes had raked over the scene with the faint interest of someone witnessing a rare but distasteful show of animal behavior—some endangered spider sucking the juices from its prey, wrapping and enfolding it in its intricate web.

 

Ron had tugged at her elbow, anxious to join Harry in the hospital wing after the rogue Bludger (and Lockhart) incident when she’d spotted it.

 

A streak of dirt on Malfoy’s cheek.

 

She’d swallowed, transfixed, helpless to keep from staring, to look at Ron, to look anywhere else but at the brown smudge marring the pink-tinged, miraculously clear complexion of the boy who’d first called her Mudblood.

 

In her staring, she’d noticed that his hair was mussed, strands hanging over his forehead, spiking in back, flopping to the right in a tangled sheaf up top.

 

“Tosser,” she’d heard Ron say. “Looks like his vile father’s giving him a dressing down.”

 

She’d nodded dumbly and taken the opportunity to trail her eyes over Malfoy’s form, his bedraggled, dusty Quidditch robes, a tear at the cuff of one sleeve, more dirt visible on his knees.

 

Her stomach had fluttered as if a bunch of fairy lights had alit inside it. They swarmed up, her heart thumping crazily, jostled.

 

Then they’d swooped lower, and Hermione felt a recently familiar tingling low in her belly.

 

Which is when she’d taken off for the castle, Ron hurrying to catch up.

* * *

As promised, Hermione owls Malfoy a week later about meeting at the Muggle hotel for another rendezvous. She includes some additional instructions but leaves others out, eager to see how he will appear to her come the following evening. If he understands.

 

The instructions are simple: wear a white undershirt and pants beneath his robes and other clothes.

 

The day comes, and it is not raining, it is not the same room, the orientation of the furnishings is changed though the furnishings themselves are the same. Hermione’s sense of anticipation has only grown since the previous week. 

 

Malfoy arrives, and he is perfect, like a work of art tempting her to mar it. Not a hair, not a thread out of place, not a blemish on his skin. Cheeks flushed faintly from the crisp autumn air.

 

He understands.

 

Breath shallow, Hermione motions to the wardrobe, and Malfoy gracefully unhooks and shrugs out of his outer robes. He hangs them and immediately moves to sit on the bed, glancing at the bottle of red wine on the night stand. 

 

“Excellent glamours,” she remarks and transfigures the pen on the nearby desk into a goblet. She half-expects him to huff in indignation, to find her praise condescending, at best redundant. Instead, he thanks her in that flat, un-Malfoy-like tone, and however precise and strong the glamours are, his eyes still read _empty_. 

 

She will fill them with something else. Even if it’s revulsion. She can’t have anything tarnishing Malfoy’s beauty unless it’s by her own hand.

 

Heart beating accompaniment in her throat, she crosses to the nightstand, uncorks the wine, and pours, nearly filling the goblet, nearly giving away her excitement with the slight trembling of the bottle, the lone, low _clink_ of glass on glass. She sets the wine down, leaves the goblet.

 

She stands before a glamoured, immaculate Malfoy and thinks, _Wand or hands, wand or hands?_ as he watches her, dully expectant.

 

_Hands._

 

With no warning, she reaches for his pristine, tailored robes and wrenches them from his shoulders, pulling them halfway down to his elbows to pool on the bed and trapping his arms awkwardly at his sides, the clothes beneath—all dark navy elegance and shiny buttons—now askew. 

 

She hears him take in a sharp breath and looks up to find his head tilted at a curious angle, astonishment already wearing away to a kind of resolve as if he’s bracing himself for pain but not minding much. She smiles both because he’s wrong in his assumptions and because she can’t help it, the fine fabric beneath her hands teasing her to look back down, see the perfect picture ruined already, and she’s just starting. She can’t find a reason to restrain herself from gliding her fingers from his arms to his chest, silvery buttons cool against her hot skin, then up the long, smooth neck around the back of his head and into his soft, shining hair. She feels him watching, anticipating, but she does not pull, not a tug, just ruffles the silky strands from the base of his skull up to his forehead until his well-glamoured, coiffed hair is a messy cloud.

 

His breath puffs against the inside of her arm, and she trails her hands back down, pausing at his neck again to feel his pulse thrum at her thumbs: it is faster but not frantic. Not like her own, beating most insistently between her legs where her pussy’s gone wet.

 

She kicks off her low-heeled sling-backs and straddles him, twill skirt riding up easily. He makes no move to unsettle her, has not tried once to struggle out of the confines of his robes. The peculiar head-tilt is gone, and he faces her straight-on, chin-up. She thinks he looks like an angel painted by a mad, jokester artist. 

 

Hermione’s hands have come to rest on his abdomen, and her fingers wriggle into the spaces between the buttons on his vest. She lifts her elbows and pauses. He stares back, knowing the game now—he must think it’s a game—and doesn’t flinch as she tugs hard, forcing buttons from holes and fabric. A few pop off onto the bed or carpeted floor. 

 

The crisp, dark blue Oxford beneath is buttoned high up, and she wastes no time reaching to pull from the neck, a satisfying _bip!_ accompanying the violent dislocation of buttons, many more this time. 

 

And beneath, revealed, the white undershirt.

 

Malfoy’s thighs are warm and firm beneath her as she sits up and back, fingers compulsively bunching the fabric of the undershirt, so, so soft. She thinks it likely cost more Galleons than the entirety of what she was wearing when she walked in the door to this room. Her eyes flick to his, and she sees gratification there but can’t be sure if it’s his or her own mirrored there.

 

Reluctantly, Hermione pushes off him and stands, taking a moment to enjoy her handiwork before things go further. He is peeled open before her like a fruit that must ripen years before its layers might be pried away by nail or knife. She is proud. Excited.

 

“The robes, take them off,” she instructs. He does and lays them aside. She puzzles over the parted vest and Oxford a moment. He’s so thin she’s not sure she can bear it, and the glamours do nothing to change it. But the garments will be in the way.

 

“The vest and shirt, too,” she decides to add. He obeys, sliding both off his arms at the same time and placing them atop the robes. After, his hands hover at his belt, eyebrows arched in expectation. But she will do this part herself.

 

With one hand on his chest, she pushes him back onto the bed. He goes easily, blinking up at her, then the ceiling. His fingers find a few stray buttons lying on the mattress to toy with, and she’s momentarily distracted by the grace of his hands even in idle play. On task, she unbuckles his belt and undoes his fly, leaving them to attend to his shoes, un-scuffed, dark grey leather this time. She unties the laces and slides them off his feet, then lightly grasps his lower calves to remove his socks. Straightening, she watches the movement of his belly as he breathes, a hint shallowly, and brings eager fingers to his waistband.

 

“Lift your hips.”

 

When he complies, she tugs at his trousers until she gets them past his hips, and he lowers himself back down to the bed. She works them the rest of the way off and tosses them onto the pile of clothing. Before she gives herself the chance to take a good look, she reaches over to the nightstand and retrieves the goblet of wine.

 

“You can sit up,” she says, and she can no longer hide her fervor—the way it thins and raises her voice in pitch—if she ever could.

 

Malfoy sits up. He glances at the goblet, then at himself—the brisk white undershirt and pants—and his mouth falls open a fraction in comprehension, glimpses of a puzzle cohering into a whole.

 

“Drink,” Hermione suggests, and her hand is wobbly with anticipation; she should not have filled the goblet so high. She manages not to spill as Malfoy reaches to take the goblet from her. She shakes her head. “Let me.” He swallows, and she wonders if, beneath the glamours, his skin has flushed. If it might show through. 

 

She brings the goblet to his lips and tilts it. He takes a sip, but she does not take it away. His brows crease, and he swallows more but can’t keep up, especially when Hermione lifts the goblet at a sharper angle. Wine begins running around the rim of the glass, dribbling down Malfoy’s chin, running a rivulet from there to his neck, soaking into his pristine, white undershirt. She keeps pouring, and he keeps swallowing, but it’s half-hearted, his gaze meeting hers above the goblet. His eyes, she notes, are darkening.

 

When there’s no more and they’re both panting, she grabs the bottle and refills the goblet. Malfoy’s undershirt is blotched purple, and Hermione licks her lips. She climbs back into his lap, and he immediately slides his hands to her hips. Her eyes go wide, but she wastes no time lifting the goblet to his mouth again. His swallows seem fewer and smaller than the first gobletful, and the wine cascades from his chin, soaking the shirt like a wound has opened. The volume is such that some spills wetly onto his shorts, and she feels his body jump beneath her at the sensation.

 

Another glassful gone, Hermione impulsively drops the goblet on the bed and takes a swig from the nearby bottle herself. Malfoy looks at her lips before she moves in to kiss him, reaching around to fist his still-mussed hair with her free hand. She slips her wine-sweetened tongue into his mouth and finds him pliant, game, his own tongue sneaking out to twine with hers, the liquid she’s drunk swirling between them and leaking from their lips. His hands on her tighten.

 

She pulls back and pushes him down to the bed again. Rising up on her knees, she holds the wine bottle over his groin and pours, drenching the sparsely spotted fabric until she can see the outline of his hardening cock. His fingers flex against the bedspread, chest rising and falling with rapid breaths, but he remains otherwise still, like a picture from a Muggle wank mag.

 

Hermione can no longer wait. She tosses the empty bottle aside and sinks down, thighs grasping his, both slick with wine. Frantic, she shoves a hand beneath her skirt and presses eager fingers to her center, knickers hot and damp with arousal. She rubs herself a moment, a spike of pleasure causing her to cry out when she finds her clit. Impatiently, she slips her fingers beneath the fabric of her underwear, finding her flesh swollen and wet, wetter than she’s ever been, she thinks. She plunges two fingers inside easily, feels her soft walls grasping and drags her thumb over her clit, hips bucking. 

 

She looks down at Malfoy, the mess she’s made of him, wine pooling in the notch at his clavicle. She remembers him haughty and preening at Hogwarts. She remembers the Quidditch match and that streak of dirt.

 

Her fingers have left her channel and are working her clit now, that tight, almost-painful pleasure at her core signaling an imminent climax. Her whole body is hot, flushed, she guesses, and the hair around her face clings to her sweaty skin, her jaw slack with arousal, a string of gasps and small cries escalating with her climb to completion.

 

Close, close. She lifts and braces herself over Malfoy, hand still moving between her legs, to be nearer her handiwork. His gaze shifts to her, and he sees her see what she’s done. His tongue sneaks out to wet his wine-dark lips, his lovely pale skin stained like there’s been carnage. 

 

And she’s coming, pussy clenching in wave after wave of relentless pleasure, clit throbbing between her soaked fingers, and her high, breathless whine goes sharp then silent, but it keeps going.

 

She doesn’t know how long she sits there, catching her breath, muscles loosening, eyes shut, having fallen back from her hovering over Malfoy, but she hears the bed creak, feels it jostle, feels his hands move up her thighs to her hips. She opens her eyes, and he’s right there, sitting up with her still straddling him. His eyes are bright and dark at the same time, big pupils with something glittering around them, lighting them up. He tugs her even closer, and he’s fully hard beneath her, right at her core. He thrusts up once and groans, does it again, pulling her down by the hips at the same time. The next thrust she helps him, and they build a rhythm, and it isn’t long before he’s coming, his face tense, eyes squeezed shut, a groan escaping his red lips.

 

He sinks to the bed, and she climbs shakily off. She is elated, dizzy with knowing, feeling, that finally this has happened. It is happening. She sees new stains on Malfoy’s shorts, and tendrils of arousal from the sight and the frottage a moment ago coil through her body. She shakes her head, smiling, and goes to use the loo instead. She’s to meet Ginny for dinner soon.

 

When she returns, he is where she left him, and she readies to leave, fetching her outer robes and wand from the wardrobe, pausing to admire Malfoy’s as she does so.

 

A flutter of wings in her stomach, she asks, “Next week?”

 

“Yes,” she hears.

 

Hermione nods, though she knows he can’t see it. “Don’t worry about the room. I put charms on everything to protect from any mess.” She doubts he cares. In a way, she’s showing off. _See how much I care about this._

 

Hand on the doorknob, she hesitates, then says over her shoulder, “And Malfoy? Take care of yourself. The glamours...they’re not ideal.”

 

She hopes that if he can understand everything else, he’ll understand this, too.

* * *

Over the next few months, Hermione and Draco meet each week at the hotel, and she makes a mess of him in a new way. 

 

There is ink, black and shining in its bottle, which Hermione first spills on parchment and dips her fingers in before leaving smudges and streaks and fingerprints all over Malfoy’s naked body, his hair clumping with it where she ran her hands through. Lips like he’s been kissing _The Daily Prophet_. Arse and cock handprinted.

 

There is makeup, which Hermione applies to Malfoy’s face with precision: eye shadow, eyeliner, mascara, all smoky drama. Lip liner and lipstick in deep red, a nice reminder of their first encounter. A sweeping of faint pink blush. Then it’s time to ruin it all, to smear it across his alabaster skin, color the pale blue shirt she tells him to wear. She uses her hands, his hands, her mouth and tongue. He feasts between her legs, and when he comes up his messy red lips are glossed.

 

There is paint, there is mud from a planter and pitcher of water, there is a four course meal, none of it consumed. Always there is sweat and come. Always she gets off, and so does he. Always she arrives and leaves first, leaves him silent in the mess. The mess itself.

 

Malfoy relies on glamours less and less. He puts on some weight, and the angles of his face and body are no longer cut-glass sharp. Each week there is something growing behind his eyes, taking the place of the detachment and bone-weariness. She’s unsure what it is, simply pleased that it’s not nothing. That still he shows at the hotel, ready for wanting.

 

Then one week she cancels via owl when Ron lands himself at St. Mungo’s due to an Auror training accident. When she arrives at the usual time the following week to meet Malfoy, he is already in the room, the first he’s preceded her. He sits on the bed, hands folded in his lap, absolutely still, and as she comes closer she can tell today there are no glamours whatsoever, the Muggle photo-touched aura of them absent. He has not looked so naturally beautiful since fifth year at Hogwarts when he paraded about in the Inquisitorial Squad, smirking and imperious and despised.

 

“I can meet more than weekly,” he states. He does not meet her eyes, and she stares at the top of his silvery head, surprised.

 

“I...” Her voice dies. Her week is so tightly structured. Not seeing him had...thrown it off. Thrown _her_ off. She’s not sure she can allow herself more of this.

 

She starts when he takes her hand, runs it through his hair clumsily. He looks up, and his eyes are full of something, and it’s need.

 

“You need me,” he says quietly.

 

She ought to scoff, pull her hand away at the suggestion, but her fingers tighten against his scalp. She watches as he stands, her hand still twisted in his hair, and he bends to kiss her, just a brush of his soft, pink lips against hers.

 

“You care for me,” he whispers.

 

“What?” She tries to stretch her lips into an amused smile, tries to laugh but chokes on it. “This is just...” she trails off, backing away from him. They never talk about it.

 

“I know, and I know you didn’t mean it to be, but this is a kind of caring.” The next words are hushed: “And you can’t take it away.”

 

Hermione’s stomach knots. “I didn’t. I won’t. Ron had an accident.” She told him this in the message she owled.

 

Malfoy shakes his head. “Not what I meant. I need a commitment.”

 

She folds her arms. “Like a contract?”

 

“Like a relationship.”

 

Her chest tightens, and she grips her elbows. She can’t think what to say, the astonishment is so large a thing inside her.

 

“We could do this whenever we wanted, whenever we could. We could do other things,” he says, approaching her slowly. “We could go out. You could tell me what you do all day. I don’t do anything,” he finishes. He does not sound sorry about the last part; he makes it seem like an offering.

 

She swallows thickly. She doesn’t know if she wants more of Malfoy, more _from_ him, but she cannot have less. She wonders if the distinction will cease to mean anything.

 

Outside, rain pelts the window. She sees the light and shadow of it on Malfoy’s face, like dry tears.

 

She takes a breath. “Shall we go for a walk then?”

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from the song "Cactus," by the Pixies.


End file.
